“Yeah,” I one-arm shrugged again. “I guess.”
That wasn’t what I wanted, though. I wanted to do right by Moira, give her art that was worthy of the gift she gave me. I wanted to do right by Maeve, too – the second woman who ever loved me and changed my life for the better.
Robert Smithers managed to use art to stop Daigh from taking Aline away from him. In a way, it was an act of love, although the act was selfish. Even Daigh, the evil fairy king, made art that moved people.
I didn’t know the first thing about how to make art like that. Maybe I never would. And I couldn’t explain it to Maeve the scientist.
She came over and settled on the couch beside me, perching gingerly on the edge so she wouldn’t jolt my arm. “What did you see at Jane’s house?”
My heart thudded. “We didn’t get there. We were going to go after the pub, but then…” I sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m guess I’m nothing but a disappointment today.”
“It’s okay. I shouldn’t send you guys to do my dirty work, anyway.” Maeve curled in beside me. She ran her fingers over my arm. Spirit magic pierced my skin like needles, seeping into the bones and spreading warmth down my arm. With her other hand, Maeve reached for the chocolate guinness cake Rowan had made me. I reached for the remote to turn the TV back on, when Corbin’s voice boomed through the castle.
“Maeve, everyone. Clara’s here!”
“We’re in the Great Hall!” I called back.
Clara bustled in, hugging a heavy old book against her chest. A tall bloke with tousled reddish hair and paint-speckled black clothes trailed in behind her. Clara didn’t even say hello. She just dumped the book on the table – sending up a cloud of dust – and announced. “I’ve found it.”
“Found what?” Arthur asked from the doorway. Rowan and Blake appeared behind him, and Aline after that, her face flushed and a small makeup compact in her hands.
“The answer we’ve been looking for.” Clara stood back, her tiny chin held high, like the Queen ready to greet her subjects.
“Is the answer Bela Lugosi over there?” I asked, jabbing my good arm toward the bloke hovering behind Clara.
“Oh, yes! Forgive me. I was so excited.” Clara grabbed the man’s arm and shoved him forward. “This is my son, Ryan Raynard.”
Ryan Raynard.
Mary Mother of Jesus.
Ryan Raynard the infamous reclusive modern impressionist artist who lived in the ancient hall just over the hill from Briarwood. Ryan Raynard whose paintings fetched millions of pounds at auction even though no one had seen him in public for ten years.
Ryan fecking Raynard is standing in my living room. And I’m lying around in my boxer shorts, covered in bandages, and wearing a t-shirt that said “Irish Whiskey Makes Me Frisky.”
The famous artist gave a weird little half-bow, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself, and stepped back behind Clara. He seemed to be more comfortable hiding in the shadows. I could kind of relate to that.
Except I couldn’t, because he created brutal paintings that stole hearts, and I did Sweet Fanny Adams.
“Flynn, you okay?” Maeve waved her hand in front of my face. “Your eyes have gone all glassy. Does Rowan need to?—”
“No, no, I’m fine,” I croaked. “Fiddle-le-de. Clara said she found the answer to our prayers. I’m just giddy with anticipation. What’s happening with your shop, Clara?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I want to show you what I found. It’s all thanks to you,” Clara beamed at me.
“Me?”Unlikely.
“When I saw Flynn’s statue this morning, it reminded me of something I’d read in one of my own family spellbooks. I wasn’t always a lone witch. I used to be part of a coven in London – the Soho coven, as it happened.”
Maeve’s eyebrow shot up. I remembered what she’d told me about what she and Corbin had seen at the coven’s headquarters. It was hard to imagine lovely old Clara mixed up with that lot.
Clara laughed. “It wasn’t always as sterile and…pompous. Back in my day, it was a real party house. They were good to me. I had to flee from Raynard Hall after Ryan’s father…well, that’s a story for another day. When I came to London I was a single mother with nothing, but they helped me find my feet again. I came into my own as a witch thanks to their guidance. I left shortly after Isadora took over as High Priestess – she and I didn’t see eye to eye, as I’m sure she’d delight in telling you. When I left, I took this book with me. I shouldn’t have it, butI had this idea that if Isadora got her hands on it, bad things would happen. Anyway, your statue made me remember this. Look.”
She flipped through the book until she came to a page of tiny writing, the letters jammed close together. Maeve pulled the book toward her, scanning the words.
“This is a diary entry from one of the Soho coven who used to entertain army officers during World War I. During the Blitz, the coven would hide in a certain exclusive air raid shelter – imagine the scene, these whores trapped underground for hours and sometimes days with some of the top minds in England. The coven became a repository of all sorts of useful knowledge about the war effort.
“Eliza Flaharty was one of those whores. She was a songstress – she used to entertain the soldiers with cabaret-style performances at the house. Sometimes she’d be invited into the officer’s barracks for private entertainments. As her lover held her in his arms, she asked him to tell her a story. He wanted to be a writer when he left the war, and so he was always inventing tragic and beautiful tales. This tale was about an officer in the British Army who was a double agent. He was loyal to Germany, but in his guise, he met and fell in love with a beautiful English woman. Torn between the two worlds, he didn’t know what to do. The idea turned itself over and over in Eliza’s head, and she wrote a song about the officer’s divided loyalty. The problem was, the song was so haunting, so evocative, that fear spread through the regiment there was a double agent. They hanged Eliza’s boy for a crime he never committed – a crime that was entirely imagined – all based on the power of belief.”
